The Unknown University (20 page)

THE INSTRUCTIONS

With instructions in an envelope, I left the city.
I didn’t have far to
go, maybe 10 or 12 miles south, along the coast highway.
I was supposed to start my
investigation on the outskirts of a tourist town whose edges had gradually begun to
house workers from elsewhere.
Some actually had jobs back in the city; others
didn’t.
The places I was supposed to visit were the usual spots: a couple of hotels,
the campground, the police station, the restaurant, the gas station.
There might be
other places later.
The sun beat on the car windows, rather unusual for September.
But the air was cold and the highway was almost deserted.
I drove past the first
string of factories.
Then an artillery barracks — through its open gates I could see
a group of recruits smoking, their bearings far from military.
At mile 6 the highway
entered a sort of forest broken up by houses and apartment buildings.
I parked the
car behind the campground and walked a while as I finished my cigarette, unsure of
what to do.
Two hundred yards away, just ahead of me, the train appeared.
It was a
blue train, four cars long at most.
It was almost empty.
I sounded the horn several
times but no one came to raise the barrier.
I left the car on the side of the
driveway and ducked under the barrier.
The drive was gravel, shaded by tall pines;
on either side there were tents and RVs camouflaged by the vegetation.
I remember
noting that it looked like the jungle, though I had never been in a jungle.
At the
end of the road, something was moving, then a trash can came into view, wheeled
along by an old man.
I waved to him.
At first he didn’t seem to see me, then he came
over to me, pulling the can after him with a look of resignation.
“I’m with the
police,” I said.
He had never seen the person we were looking for.
Are you sure?
I
asked, handing him a cigarette.
He said he was absolutely sure.
It was more or less
the same answer I got from everyone.
Twilight found me in the car, parked on the
Paseo Maritímo.
I took out the instructions.
There were no lights, so I had to use a
cigarette lighter to read them.
There were a couple of typewritten sheets with
handwritten corrections.
Nowhere did it say what I should be doing there.
With those
pages there were some black-and-white photos.
I studied them carefully: it was the
stretch of the Paseo Marítimo where I was now, maybe earlier in the day.
“Our
stories are sad, sergeant, there’s no point to understand them” .
.
.
“We’ve never
hurt anyone” .
.
.
“No point trying to understand them” .
.
.
“The sea” .
.
.
I
balled up the papers and threw them out the window.
In the rearview mirror I thought
I could see how the wind swept them away.
I turned on the radio, music, a program
from the city; I switched it off.
I lit a cigarette.
I closed the window, still
staring ahead, watching the lonely street and the boarded-up houses.
I was struck by
the idea of living in one of them during the winter season.
They must be cheaper, I
said to myself, unable to suppress a shiver.

LA BARRA

Las imágenes emprenden camino, como la voz, nunca llegarán a ninguna
parte, simplemente se pierden.
Es inútil, dice la voz, y el jorobadito se pregunta
¿inútil para quién?
Los puentes romanos son ahora el azar, el autor piensa mientras
las imágenes aún fulguran, no demasiado lejanas, como pueblos que el automóvil va
dejando atrás.
(Pero en este caso el tipo no se mueve.) «He hecho un recuento de
cabezas huecas y cabezas cortadas» .
.
.
«Sin duda hay más cabezas cortadas» .
.
.
«Aunque en la eternidad se confunden» .
.
.
Le dije a la judía que era muy triste
estar horas en un bar escuchando historias sórdidas.
No había nadie que tratara de
cambiar de tema.
La mierda goteaba de las frases a la altura de los pechos, de tal
manera que no pude seguir sentado y me acerqué a la barra.
Historias de policías a
la caza del emigrante.
Bueno, nada espectacular, por supuesto, gente nerviosa por el
desempleo, etc.
Éstas son las historias tristes que puedo contarte.

THE BAR

The images set off down the road, like the voice, they’ll never get
anywhere, they’re simply lost.
It’s hopeless, says the voice — and the hunchback
asks himself hopeless for who?
The Roman bridges are our fate now, thinks the author
as the images still shine, not too distant, like towns that the car gradually leaves
behind.
(But in this case the man isn’t moving.) “I’ve made a count of airheads and
severed heads” .
.
.
“There’re definitely more severed heads” .
.
.
“Although in
eternity it’s hard to tell them apart” .
.
.
I told the Jewish girl that it was sad
to spend hours in a bar listening to dirty stories.
Nobody tried to change the
subject.
Shit dripped from the sentences at breast height, so that I couldn’t stay
seated and I went up to the bar.
Stories about cops chasing immigrants.
Nothing
shocking, really, people upset because they were out of work, etc.
These are the sad
stories I have to tell you.

EL POLICÍA SE ALEJÓ

Recuerdo que andaba de un lado para otro sin detenerse demasiado tiempo
en ningún lugar.
A veces tenía el pelo rojo, los ojos eran verdes casi siempre.
El
sargento se le acercó y con gesto triste le pidió los papeles.
Miró hacia las
montañas, allí estaba lloviendo.
Hablaba poco, la mayor parte del tiempo se limitaba
a escuchar las conversaciones de los jinetes del picadero vecino, de los albañiles o
de los camareros del restaurante de la carretera.
El sargento procuró no mirarla a
los ojos, creo que dijo que era una pena que estuviera lloviendo en las vegas,
después sacó cigarrillos y le ofreció uno.
En realidad buscaba a otra persona y
pensó que ella podía darle información.
La muchacha contemplaba el atardecer apoyada
en la cerca del picadero.
El sargento caminó por un sendero en la hierba, tenía las
espaldas anchas y una chaqueta azul marino.
Lentamente empezó a llover.
Ella cerró
los ojos en el momento en que alguien le contaba que había soñado un pasillo lleno
de mujeres sin boca; luego caminó en dirección contraria al bosque.
Un empleado
viejo y gastado apagó las luces del picadero.
Con la manga limpió los cristales de
la ventana.
El policía se alejó sin decir adiós.
A oscuras, se sacó los pantalones
en el dormitorio.
Buscó su rincón mientras los vellos se le erizaban y permaneció
unos instantes sin moverse.
La muchacha había presenciado una violación y el
sargento pensó que podía servirle de testigo.
Pero en realidad él iba detrás de otra
cosa.
Puso sus cartas sobre la mesa.
Fundido en negro.
De un salto estuvo de pie
sobre la cama.
A través de los vidrios sucios de la ventana podían verse las
estrellas.
Recuerdo que era una noche fría y clara, desde el lugar donde estaba el
policía se dominaba casi todo el picadero, los establos, el bar que casi nunca
abría, las habitaciones.
Ella se asomó a la ventana y sonrió.
Escuchó pisadas que
subían las escaleras.
El sargento dijo que si no quería hablar no lo hiciera.
«Mis
nexos con el Cuerpo son casi nulos, al menos desde el punto de vista de ellos» .
.
.
«Busco a un tipo que hace un par de temporadas vivió aquí, tengo motivos para pensar
que usted lo conoció» .
.
.
«Imposible olvidar a nadie con esas características
físicas» .
.
.
«No quiero hacerle daño» .
.
.
«Bordeando la costa encontraron
bosques dorados y cabañas abandonadas hasta el verano siguiente» .
.
.
«El paraíso»
.
.
.
«Muchacha pelirroja mirando el atardecer desde el establo en llamas» .
.
.

THE POLICEMAN WALKED AWAY

I remember she moved from place to place without staying anywhere too
long.
Sometimes she had red hair, her eyes were almost always green.
The sergeant
came up to her and, with a sad gesture, asked for her papers.
She turned to look at
the mountains — it was raining there.
She didn’t talk much, most of the time she
just listened to the conversations of the riders from the stable next door, or of
the construction workers or the waiters from the restaurant on the highway.
The
sergeant avoided her eyes, I think he said it was too bad it was raining on the
plain, then he pulled out some cigarettes and offered her one.
He was really looking
for someone else and he thought she might be able to give him some information.
The
girl watched the sunset, leaning on the riding school fence.
The sergeant walked
along a path in the grass, he had broad shoulders and a navy blue jacket.
Slowly it
began to rain.
She closed her eyes when someone told her that he had dreamed of a
corridor full of women without mouths; then she walked away toward the woods.
An
employee, a tired old man, turned out the lights at the riding school.
With his
sleeve he wiped the window panes.
The policeman walked away without saying goodbye.
In the dark, she took off her pants in the bedroom.
She tried to decide on a corner,
the hairs rising on the backs of her arms, and for a few moments she didn’t move.
The girl had witnessed a rape and the sergeant thought she could serve as witness.
But he was really after something else.
He put his cards on the table.
Fade to
black.
In a leap he was standing on the bed.
Through the dirty windows you could see
the stars.
I remember it was cold, a clear night.
From where he was the cop could
see almost the whole riding school, the stable, the bar that almost never opened,
the rooms.
She looked out the window and smiled.
She heard footsteps coming up the
stairs.
The sergeant said she didn’t have to talk if she didn’t want to.
“My links
to the Body are almost nonexistent, at least from their own point of view” .
.
.
“I’m looking for someone who lived here a few seasons ago, I have reason to think
you knew him” .
.
.
“Impossible to forget someone who looked like that” .
.
.
“I
don’t want to hurt you” .
.
.
“Along the coast they found golden woods and cabins
vacant until next summer” .
.
.
“Paradise” .
.
.
“Redheaded girl watching the sun go
down from the stable in flames” .
.
.

LA SÁBANA

El inglés dijo que no valía la pena.
Largo rato estuvo pensando a qué se
referiría.
Delante de él la sombra de un hombre se deslizó por el bosque.
Masajeó
sus rodillas pero no hizo ademán de levantarse.
El hombre surgió de atrás de un
matorral.
En el antebrazo, como un camarero aproximándose al primer cliente de la
tarde, llevaba una sábana blanca.
Sus movimientos tenían algo de desmañados y sin
embargo se traslucía una serena autoridad en su manera de caminar.
El jorobadito
supuso que el hombre ya lo había visto.
Con un cordelito amarillo ató una punta de
la sábana a un pino, luego ató la punta contraria a la rama de otro árbol.
Realizó
la misma operación con los extremos inferiores hasta que el jorobadito sólo pudo
verle las piernas pues el resto del cuerpo quedaba oculto por la pantalla.
Lo
escuchó toser.
Las piernas parsimoniosamente se pusieron en movimiento hasta traer
al hombre otra vez de este lado.
Contempló los nudos que mantenían fija la sábana a
los pinos.
«No está mal», dijo el jorobadito, pero el hombre no le hizo caso.
Puso
la mano izquierda en el ángulo superior izquierdo y la fue deslizando, la palma
contra la tela, hasta el centro.
Llegado allí retiró la mano y dio algunos
golpecitos con el dedo índice como para comprobar la tensión de la sábana.
Se volvió
de cara al jorobadito y suspiró satisfecho.
Después chasqueó la lengua.
El pelo le
caía sobre la frente mojada en transpiración.
Tenía la nariz roja y larga.
«En
efecto, no está mal», dijo.
«Voy a pasar una película.» Sonrió como si se
disculpara.
Antes de marcharse miró el techo del bosque, cada vez más oscuro.